Old Madness

Old men stand by the sides of streets. Their skins fold and tremble when the wind stirs. Their souls sigh with languor and the memories, when they happen, are abrasive.
The rain will come and find them there, their lives bundled besides them, their hunger as absolute as it always was. Children will become them. Children will be bereft of them.
These old men, when their lives spill, will never be mourned. The sun will bathe the earth with hope and rain will become passion, but no one will cry in remembrance. The wind finds new skin, for alas, these old men will always exist. Their souls continue in gentle grace, their anguish falls away, over seas, over anthills, over dew, over new love.
Old men like it when spring comes, when they can store away their frosty bones and skip through the fields. They roll through the stalks and splash the meadows. They laugh, their big laughs, their vivid momentous celebration sweeping like a rebirth through the villages.
“Look” Women will say, “It’s dusk. It’s time to go dust the little ones.”
“Aah” the young will sigh, “We die tonight.”
And the men will stand watch as their cities burn to the ground, as plagues consume the glass, as ugliness breaks the steel.
And the old men, standing by the sides of the streets, will be thinking of Molly Green.

Reviews

[Aphy!]

very nice first attempt. Really enjoyed it and how it's not your typical poem looking poem...get what I'm saying? Anywho, great first try...really looking forward to reading more hey! Welcome to the club!
Aphy :)